Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  Matt drives me home in the rain, and he doesn’t seem to mind the extra few minutes it takes to get to Dad’s house. In a moment of unprecedented courage, I ask if he wants to come inside. But he tells me his mom’s been calling him all afternoon, and he holds up his phone with the missed calls to prove it.

  “Oh wow. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I think she forgot I had rehearsal.”

  “Parents,” I say, even though that is not a parental mistake I can relate to. I mean, my dad would definitely forget my rehearsal schedule—he wouldn’t have known it to begin with—but he wouldn’t be frantically calling all afternoon. Whereas my mom’s all about the frantic phone calls, but she’d never misremember my rehearsal schedule. She actually photographs the call lists Ms. Zhao sends home and stores them in her phone to refer back to. She does the same thing for Ryan during baseball season. Total supermom move.

  The storm’s mostly ended by the time I settle in at Dad’s, though settle maybe isn’t the word, seeing as I’m now a human jumble of wires. I change into sweatpants and flop back on my bed, staring at my canopy for a full ten minutes. I feel simultaneously normal and radically strange, like my brain’s switching between two tracks. There’s Normal Brain, which remembers I have algebra homework and wants to eat yogurt and watch Tangled. But then every few seconds, I-Kissed-Matt Brain takes over, and wow, I-Kissed-Matt Brain is not a chill brain. I-Kissed-Matt Brain wants to swoon and explode and replay every second of today’s rehearsal, ad nauseum, ideally over the phone with Anderson, because apparently I-Kissed-Matt Brain is a total asshole.

  I can’t do that. I can’t tell Anderson about today. Ground rules or no ground rules, that’s just cruel. I don’t even want to tell Raina and Brandie. God. It’s going to be so messy if Matt and I start dating. Like, as a squad, how do you even navigate that? What do you prioritize? Celebrating with me over my first real boyfriend? Or consoling Anderson over his first real heartbreak? I mean, I’m sure Andy will joke around and yammer on about the ground rules and act like he’s totally fine.

  But he won’t be. No one understands Anderson like I do. He’s a lot more fragile than people realize. I’m not saying he’s any less brave, or any less of a badass. It’s just that he’s got a soft center, and he’s a little too good at hiding that.

  So I can’t tell Andy, and I can’t tell the girls, but I also can’t bear to be alone. This is crazy, but for a split second, I picture myself running through the rain to Noah’s house.

  Which is a very bad plan.

  But somehow the thought gets me moving, and a minute later, I’m on the other end of the hall, knocking on my brother’s door. No answer, of course. I let myself in anyway.

  Ryan’s on his bed, watching a movie with headphones, Camilla’s head in his lap. Ryan’s never really minded having the dogs in his bed, even on days like today, when they’re matted and damp and smell extra doggy. It’s his one exception to being a neat freak.

  “What are you watching?” I ask.

  “Um. Black Mirror.”

  I gasp. “You like Black Mirror?” I sink back onto Ryan’s bed, next to Camilla’s butt. “Okay, which season?”

  He tilts the screen toward me. “This one.”

  I shriek. “San Junipero!”

  “Okay?”

  “Ryan. Like. You know that’s the official squad favorite, right? I can’t believe you’re watching this. It’s so good.”

  “Noted.”

  “I won’t spoil it. I’ll be quiet.” I peer at the screen, hands burrowing into Camilla’s fur. “Oh, I love this part.”

  He flicks his eyes toward me.

  “This episode is so romantic,” I add.

  Which makes it perfect for today. Because, no question: today has been the most romantic day of my life. September tenth. Forever tattooed on my brain and engraved on my heart.

  A part of me wants to spill the whole story to Ryan—though I have no idea how he’d react. I guess he’d probably be confused, like, why are you telling me this? I love Ryan, but we’re not the kind of siblings who have deep talks, or even how-was-your-day talks.

  We used to be. I used to know all the stupid Ryan details, like how he knows every word of “Hey, Soul Sister.” Or that he hates insects so much, he used to keep his Weedles and Metapods facedown in his Pokémon card binder. I used to know all of that. And Ryan knew all my details, too.

  I wonder if that’s a thing you can ever get back.

  Ryan’s texting now, but his texts don’t pop up on his laptop like mine do. And Camilla’s blocking my view of his phone screen. But maybe if I lean a little closer—

  “Wow,” Ryan says. “You are so nosy.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m politely and appropriately interested.” I sit up straighter. “Are you texting a girl?”

  He flips his phone facedown.

  “So, yes.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “Are you kicking me out?”

  He scoffs. “I really should.”

  Camilla cranes her neck up to lick Ryan’s chin, which, if you ask me, is just rude. No one asked her to take sides.

  But a moment later, with no comment or preamble, Ryan takes his headphones off and unplugs them. Which makes the sound come through his laptop speakers.

  And when I glance at him sidelong, he rolls his eyes—but he’s smiling.

  Scene 44

  On Friday, Mom calls me an hour before my alarm’s set to go off. Which is so unusual, I’m jolted instantly awake, my heart in my throat. “Everything okay? Mom?”

  “Everything’s fine, sweetie. Good morning!” She sounds chipper. Like. What the fuck, Mom?

  “Why are you calling me at six?”

  “Well.” She pauses, and I hear coffee-grinding noises in the background. “I’d like us to have a family meeting.”

  “Um. What?”

  We’re not a family meeting kind of family. I don’t even know the protocol for family meetings. Do they have to be scheduled? Apparently they do. Apparently they have to be scheduled at six in the morning on a Friday, out of nowhere.

  “Maybe you and your brother could swing home this morning? Whenever you can.”

  Home. Mom always does that—refers to her house as home, and I never know how to feel about it.

  “So . . . you want me to wake up Ryan?”

  “No, he’s up. I just called him. I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page. You don’t have an algebra test, right? I’m worried we’ll be a little late getting you guys back to school.”

  “Mom.” I blink up at my canopy. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing bad, sweetie! I just need to talk to you guys about something. Okay, I’m going to let you go get dressed. Love you. See you in a bit!”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in Ryan’s passenger seat. “This is weird,” I inform him, stretching the seat belt over my chest. Stellar outfit today: the sweatpants from last night, and the old ringer tee I mostly use for painting sets. “You don’t think this is weird?”

  “Oh, it’s weird.” Ryan yawns, checking the rearview.

  “I’m so freaked out. I swear, I thought she was going to say she’s in the hospital or something. Or that something happened to Charles or Camilla.”

  “The dogs are at Dad’s house.”

  “I know, but it was like six in the morning. I wasn’t thinking straight. Anyway, what do you think this is about?”

  Ryan shrugs.

  “It has to be important, right? Like if it had to happen today, right now. That’s kind of—and then she says we might be late for first period? She told you that, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think—” I cut myself off, cheeks burning, and thankfully, Ryan doesn’t press it. It’s such a stupid thought, anyway. Doesn’t even make sense. If Mom wanted to have some new phase of The Talk, there’s literally no reason for this level of urgency. Plus, Mom’s always been pointedly casual about sex talks. She’s more into the sneak a
ttack, like hey how was school, honey, want to learn about birth control? So calling us at six in the morning on a school day isn’t really her MO. But maybe Mom found out about the kiss at rehearsal and it got her thinking about sex and she totally lost her chill. I guess it could happen. Maybe? Except I’d kind of rather that talk didn’t happen in front of Ryan.

  We park in the driveway but walk in through the garage—and right away, there’s Mom at the kitchen table, waiting for us. She looks mostly normal. Maybe a little rattled. I cut right to the chase. “What’s going on?”

  “Well.” Mom gestures to the kitchen chairs. “Why don’t you two sit down?”

  “Mom! What?” Now my heart’s banging all around my rib cage again. Sit down. Isn’t that a thing you say when you’re about to deliver bad news? I know I’m lucky, because I haven’t gotten a lot of why-don’t-you-sit-down news in my life. Maybe three times—when my zayde died, the day Mom and Dad announced the divorce, and the day after the 2016 election.

  So yeah. This isn’t good.

  But Mom seems to sense what I’m thinking, because she touches my arm. “Katypie, everyone’s fine. I just wanted to fill you both in on something that happened yesterday, and then run something by you.” She smiles slightly. “Okay, so I know you both know my friend Ellen.”

  “Matt’s mom.”

  “Oh, right—and you had your rehearsal yesterday! I heard you had a blackout.”

  “Ellen told you that?”

  My stomach twists, just a little. Like. Uh. What else did Ellen tell her? How much does Matt tell Ellen?

  “So, yesterday, the storm knocked down this big tree in Ellen and Matt’s backyard, and it went right into Matthew’s bedroom, unfortunately. He’s okay,” Mom adds quickly. “He was actually at rehearsal.”

  And suddenly, chillingly, I remember the half dozen phone calls Matt missed from his mom.

  “Ellen’s okay?” I ask, after a moment.

  “Oh, yes. They’re both absolutely fine. And luckily, there’s a deck, which broke the tree’s fall a little bit.” She demonstrates, flattening her hand horizontally like the deck, and tilting her other arm down at the elbow like the tree. “Like this. Anyway. Could have been a lot worse, and they have renter’s insurance. All good. But there’s a fairly large hole in Matt’s bedroom.”

  “That’s so scary.”

  “I know. It’s so lucky he was at rehearsal.”

  “Yeah.” I exhale. “Yeah.”

  “Anyway.” Mom clasps her hands on the table. “Last night, they stayed in a hotel room, but obviously that’s not a long-term solution. So I hope it’s okay, I’ve talked a little bit with Ellen about having them stay here with us. It would just be for a couple of weeks, while they get everything sorted—”

  “You mean here?” My voice comes out almost choked. “Like our house?”

  I’m sorry, but what? What?

  “Yes, here.” Mom looks vaguely amused. “I’ve called out of work so I can clear all the junk out of the guest room. So, we have a couple of options. I think we can fit an air mattress onto the floor of the guest room just fine. But Ryan, if you were open to it, maybe Matthew—”

  “That’s fine,” Ryan says simply.

  Mom nods. “So you’re fine having Matthew in the extra bed.”

  “He could stay in my room,” I suggest.

  Mom laughs. “Absolutely not.”

  “On the air mattress!” I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “I don’t mean. Like. That. I’m just offering.”

  “Nice try. Not happening. And by the way, the six-inch rule is still six hundred percent in effect.”

  “That is heteronormative and sexist.”

  “Anyway,” Mom says. “Ry, honey, are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Matt’s cool.”

  Oh. Ohhhh. Hold up. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Ryan and Matt might actually be friends. But why wouldn’t they be? They’re both seniors, both in AP classes, and the people in Matt’s pictures from Alabama definitely look like people Ryan would hang out with. It’s not like he’s never been to an f-boy party.

  I’ve just never really pictured Matt’s world outside of Andy and me. But wow. For all I know, he himself could be an f-boy.

  Except, no. Absolutely not. He can’t be. F-boys aren’t sweet and silly, and they definitely don’t do theater. I mean, Noah Kaplan is and does, sort of, but he’s always been somewhat of an anomaly among f-boys. Whereas Matt’s not an f-boy whatsoever. Would an f-boy hold his diaphragm while singing scales and doing warm-ups? Would an f-boy even give Andy and me the time of day? I don’t think so.

  “You guys are awesome,” says my mom. “The best. Seriously. I’ll tell Ellen to check out of the hotel.” Her phone’s already pressed to her ear, ringing. “Sound good?”

  Ryan nods.

  But I just quietly combust.

  Scene 45

  “Shut. Up,” Anderson says, as soon as he sees me in history.

  “I literally said zero words—”

  “Matt just told me! Oh my God, Katy. Like, a tree? A fucking tree?”

  “Who’s fucking trees?” asks Raina, sliding into her usual desk behind Anderson.

  “Well,” Andy says, putting a hand on his hip. “According to my sources, a tree—an actual tree—fell onto Matt Olsson’s house while he was at rehearsal yesterday, so now apparently, he’s moving into Kate’s bedroom—”

  “What? That is absolutely—”

  “Damn,” says Raina. “Kate. Get yours.”

  “Okay, first of all, he’s staying in Ryan’s room—”

  “Still!” Anderson slips into his seat but turns right back to face me. “Kate Eliza, you are the luckiest girl on earth, I swear. Between this and the Larken and Harry stuff.”

  The bell rings before I can reply, bringing the usual flurry of movement—people claiming seats, dropping backpacks, hugging, talking, ignoring Mr. Edelman. Noah walks in wearing a T-shirt featuring—I’m not kidding—the word “Daddy” and a picture of Daniel Tiger’s father.

  I look up at him. “Really?”

  “Just raising awareness.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Anderson nudges my sneaker with his loafer. “Hey,” he says, eyeing me meaningfully. “I have to pee.”

  Our signal. I nod almost imperceptibly, my eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Ten minutes later, we’re practically skidding down the hallway, each with our own crumpled up hall pass from Mr. Edelman. It’s amazing—we didn’t even have to stagger our exits. But of course, Edelman’s one of those teachers who’s always visibly relieved to have fewer students in the classroom. We reach the BTF and assume our usual stall positions immediately.

  “So. Kind of crazy, right? Matt’s moving into Hotel Garfield.”

  “Uh, yeah, but more importantly,” says Andy. “What’s going on with you and Noah?”

  For a moment, I’m speechless. “Me and Noah? Noah Kaplan?”

  “You’re gonna act like there wasn’t a major vibe just now? Please.”

  “Um.” I snap a quick, befuddled-looking selfie and text it to Anderson. “Andy, are you high?”

  “I’m just saying. You had the look. The mouth.”

  Anderson swears I do this thing with my mouth, some kind of twitch at the corners. He says it’s my tell when I like someone. I happen to think it’s bullshit.

  “Andy, he’s a fuckboy. What are you talking about?”

  “He’s a misunderstood fuckboy. Barely a fuckboy. He’s not exactly Jack Randall.”

  “Jack Randall literally drew boobs on Noah’s cast.”

  “Eww,” Anderson says. “Well, definitely don’t start dating him until he gets his cast off.”

  “Oh, the boobs are gone. He has a replacement cast.”

  “Well, in that case—”

  “Also, what the fuck? I’m not dating Noah Kaplan!”

  “Mm-hmm. If you say so.”

  I can barely form words, I’m so shell-shocked. I just scrunch
my legs up onto the side of the toilet and shake my head slowly. Anderson’s finally lost it. He has to be kidding, right? Noah? Sorry, but that’s clearly wishful thinking. On Anderson’s part, not mine. NOT mine. Because if I’m occupied with Noah Kaplan, Andy gets Matt all to himself. How convenient.

  “Is this just you being weird because Matt’s moving into my house?”

  “Pssh. No.” There’s this tiny rustle from his stall that makes me think he’s taking a selfie. Sure enough, within moments, I get a photo of Anderson rolling his eyes. “You know this means you’ll be sharing a bathroom with Matt, right?”

  “So?”

  “So? Kate, excuse me, are you forgetting about Bring It On? Kirsten Dunst and Jesse Bradford? The toothbrush scene?”

  “Oh my God.” My stomach flutters. “Oh my God.”

  “This is your life now, Kate. Sexually charged dental hygiene. Every single night.”

  “But just Mom’s house nights—”

  “You have to, like, check the medicine cabinet or something. It’s not creepy if it’s your own bathroom. Do you think he’ll bring condoms?”

  “Why?”

  “To have sex,” Andy says.

  “In Ryan’s room?”

  “I’m just saying, there are no secrets now. We are about to solve the mystery of Matthew Thomas Olsson.” Anderson pauses. “What if you walk in on him showering?”

  “What if he walks in on me showering?” My stomach drops. “Or pooping!”

  “You can’t poop while he’s there,” Anderson says, matter-of-factly. “You poop at your dad’s house now.”

  “But what if—”

  “Or my house. Katypie, I am dead serious. If you have to poop, you walk your stiff little butt out that door and over to my house. I’ve got you.”

  “You’re an amazing friend. Like. Next-level amazing. You know that?”

  “Make it up to me by inviting me over tonight,” Andy says.

  I grin. “Consider yourself invited.”

  Scene 46

  Matt and Ellen combined have just four suitcases of stuff, which is less than the volume of clutter and storage boxes Mom just moved from the guest room.

  “Maggie, I can’t thank you enough,” Ellen says. “And you kids. Honestly—”